Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She shook her head. Not her problem. He had his job; she had hers. As long as they didn’t share the same space they’d be fine. In Star’s absence she intended to complete her project. Lance could buck all he wanted.

  The things at the back of the attic were much older and nastier than the rest. The vermin had congregated there. Every one of the traps had sprung, though one had failed to catch the beggar that stole the cheese. Lance emptied the traps and hauled out rotted blankets and old leather boots. He swept out mounds of fluff and filth. A basket of fabric strips all but disintegrated in his arms and mouse droppings littered the floor as he lifted it.

  He puffed the dust away, then held his breath, waving a hand to clear the cloud. Something caught his eye, and he stooped. A flat metal box with an Alpine scene on the cover. His heart raced. Exactly the sort of thing he’d hoped to find. He dropped the fabric and picked up the box.

  It looked like a woman’s stationary set. He tried to open the latch, but it was locked. He shook it. Papers by the sound and weight. It could be nothing more than writing paper, but his excitement surged.

  He jerked his head around at the sound of someone on the stairs. Quickly shoving the box under the moldy fabric, he stood up and faced Rese. “Hey.” He rubbed his hands on the seat of his jeans. “Got the conversion done?”

  “Yes.” She searched the space with her gaze. “And you’re almost finished here.”

  “You do not want to mess with what’s left, believe me.”

  She cast a disparaging glance at the pile. “I’ve handled worse. But I’m glad you volunteered.” Her hands went to her hips. “Maybe after lunch—”

  “Go ahead and eat. I’m not hungry.” True enough. The smell and condition of the things he’d hauled, the incredible frustration of cooking for her, but most of all the desire to see inside that box sent any notion of food from his mind.

  “Oh. All right.” She lingered another moment, then went back down.

  So he hadn’t been totally forthcoming. Technically, he supposed everything in the attic belonged to her. Morally, he could make an argument otherwise—if Nonna had lost something … or everything? He stooped and retrieved the box, accidentally kicking over the button jar, the contents spilling out as it rolled across the floor.

  He set down the box and stopped the jar’s rolling, then did a quick search. Nothing but buttons. He scooped them back into the jar and closed the lid tightly. He would bring it down to Rese. If she was in the kitchen getting food, he could reach his room undetected on the way. But where was Star?

  Lance reached the landing and saw her door standing open and the bags exactly where he’d left them. The room was empty. He ducked into his own, slid the metal box into his drawer, then brought Rese the box of handkerchiefs and the jar of buttons. She was warming canned ravioli, which she certainly deserved.

  “Where’s Star?”

  “She went to find a job.”

  So Rese really wasn’t hiring her. “I won’t get close since I’m filthy, but I thought you might like these.” He set them on the counter. “Hankies and buttons.”

  “Oh.” Not quite the awe she’d expressed over the stone floor, but certainly more interest than she’d shown any of his meals.

  He said, “Could work nicely in that white room.” Why did he feel as though he were presenting her a peace offering? It was her own stuff even.

  Rese nodded. “I could put the handkerchiefs behind glass. But people might steal the buttons.”

  “You mean take one as a keepsake?”

  “Or more. Old buttons are quite valuable. I’d hate to lose them.”

  Lance swallowed. If she felt that way about buttons … “Glue the lid shut.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Practical suggestion from a man with an earring.”

  “Will you get off that?” He’d gone to the plain hoop, hoping it would draw less attention.

  She laughed. “Want some ravioli?”

  “That’s not ravioli. It’s cat food wrapped in soggy cardboard.”

  She looked into the pot. “Oh.”

  He headed for the door. “I should have the rest of the junk out in a trip or two. I’ll get it swept up, then I’ll need a serious shower.” And a look into the tin box.

  Cat food in soggy cardboard. She had never thought of it in those terms, but it fit. Unfortunately. She scraped the limp squares off the bottom of the pan into her dish. She couldn’t really expect him to cook all their meals. Especially when they weren’t even open for business yet.

  It didn’t matter. Eat and get back to work. Soggy cat food or not.

  As soon as she’d finished eating, Rese got her digital camera from the office and went upstairs. She should have photographed the rooms before Lance and Star moved in. But then she hadn’t expected Lance to arrive in the middle of the night, or Star at all. She had learned long ago to expect nothing from her friend. There was less disappointment that way. Star was who she was.

  Rese hid a smile. Lance had certainly seen it up close and personal. Not that there was anything else with dramatic, emotive Star. Like Lance? Rese sighed. Maybe she was the odd one.

  “Got a concept of emotion?” Lance’s words had stung. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel. She just wouldn’t let it show. It made her vulnerable, weak— something she’d learned never to be.

  Rese didn’t know what wind had tossed Star her way this time, or how long it would last. She appeared and disappeared like a magician’s assistant, though Rese rarely glimpsed the magician. The real question was how she’d known about the inn. “I can’t believe you bought this place.”

  Who had told her? Rese frowned. Who even knew? She’d sold everything, left Sausalito, then found a place to fix up as her own after … The pang came so sharply it almost doubled her. She drew a hard breath and forced her attention onto the task before her.

  She raised the camera and took shots of the four empty rooms, then tugged Star’s bags into the hall and photographed that one. As she’d said, Rese was not surprised at the room choice. Star might have been a brightly plumed jungle bird or an iridescent dragonfly. There was no other room she’d want.

  Lance had chosen the one she decorated for Dad, with his appreciation for anything nautical. In another time he’d have been a shipwright. The door was closed, and she heard the shower running. She’d have to get those photos later. Lance had not made up any special dishes, so she may as well leave the Web site until tomorrow and do the carpentry in the front room today.

  She had good maple and her lathe and router for building shelves into one wall. Her heart soared with the prospect. She didn’t mind the other aspects of construction, but carpentry was her passion, especially hand carving the decorative pieces.

  Nothing pleased her more than shaping the wood into leaves and curls, notches and grooves, a lost art maybe, with cheap prefabricated pieces replacing the painstaking work of artisans, but not in her homes. There was at least one hand-carved piece in every place she’d renovated; mantels, decorative panels, even a newel post of lions on the spiral staircase in one San Francisco mansion. Her signature.

  Lance toweled dry and dressed in his other pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. He was going to have to do laundry, but just now there was only one thing on his mind. He made sure the door was locked, then took the metal box from his drawer. Besides the Alpine scene, it had a brass fitting at each corner and the lock was brass.

  It might be nothing more than a souvenir left by someone who had lived in the house. But the Alps could be significant, given the family’s origin in the Piemonte region of Italy bordered by the Alps and Liguria, where he’d found Conchessa. The box looked European, and it was definitely old.

  He took his pocketknife from the dresser and pulled out the toothpick. He didn’t want to force the clasp if he could help it. Working the toothpick into the keyhole, he moved it around while putting easy pressure on the lid.

  Accumulated grit came out of the hole. Maybe it was just clogged. He
worked the pointed piece all over inside the hole, then tried again to open the lid. This time it shifted but still held. Most likely locked then.

  As he tipped the box, the papers shifted inside. Lord, this has to be something. Help me open it. Let me see inside. He opened the screwdriver attachment and tried it in the hole. It just fit, and he worked the flat edge around until it caught, then carefully turned. Holding his breath, he tried the lid, felt it give, then grate open. He looked in, excitement building like suds in a sink.

  Folded newspaper clippings, yellow and brittle, but intact. He lifted them carefully out and read the top headline: A Hero for Today. His gaze flew over the story. An attempted train robbery on the Union Pacific, and Quillan Shepard had thwarted the attempt. Lance exulted. His great-great grandfather. Nonna had written of him to Conchessa in the letters he’d poured over with his aged cousin in the Ligurian courtyard. Nonna’s words betrayed a girl’s exhuberant fondness close to what he felt for her.

  This was the place, his family home, and Quillan, it seemed, larger-than life. Even reading past the journalist’s exuberant style, the story was dramatic. Mustering a party of passengers, armed with their sporting rifles and handguns, Quillan had faced down the robbers and talked them into leaving.

  Lance raised his brows at the next information. Quillan knew the leader of the gang, Shane Dennison? The article claimed Quillan had been involved in a robbery with Dennison years before, but was cleared of the charges.

  It’s the old story of a boy enamored with a man, only to be shown the stark truth of that man’s nature. But Quillan Shepard redeemed himself and took action on the side of right against the very one who had shamed him. This stalwart man of doughty countenance is the stuff of today’s hero.

  Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Stalwart man of doughty countenance. He doubted anyone questioned Quillan’s manhood. Of course, until Rese, no one had questioned his own. The article ended with a charge for people to stand for what was right, even in the face of personal risk. A smile tugged his lips. He must have a dose of Quillan after all.

  Lance set that article gently aside. The next seemed to be a follow-up to the same story, though it came from a Cheyenne, Wyoming, newspaper.

  Headline: Robber Cut Down by Clerk’s Foresight. Lance read on.

  Notorious bank and train robber, Shane Dennison, was shot dead Wednesday at the Fort Laramie bank. Bank clerk, Simon Blessing, claims he saw the notorious outlaw in a poker game at the saloon. “I recognized the mole under his lip from the new posters.” Certain there could be trouble he alerted bank owner, Thaddeus Marsh. Law officers were ready when Dennison made his move on the bank. Dennison was shot trying to exit the window. Two partners were captured and await trial.

  It read like an old western dime novel. But the next were even more impressive. They were articles about Quillan from the Harper’s Monthly Magazine that included pieces of his poetry. Conchessa had let him take a book of Quillan’s poetry, which he had read on the plane ride home, finding a connection with his own song lyrics. Had he inherited his poetic nature from this man of long ago?

  Lance was fitting the pieces together as in his dream. Maybe it was a prophetic dream, the Lord promising resolution. It nagged a little that even when he’d assembled the shards, the mirror was still broken. But right now he was finding pieces.

  He picked up a packet of letters and untied the string. The first smelled of musty age, and he was glad it had been protected by the metal box. The thick paper unfolded with difficulty. It had been hand ornamented with roses at the bottom, but they were faded almost unrecognizably.

  March 13, 1883

  My dearest Carina,

  Felicitations on the birth of your son, Vittorio DiGratia Shepard. And congratulations to your husband. I accept with gratitude your request to be godfather to the child. He will benefit from my tutelage in ways your Quillan falls short, pride in the old country, and the history of our people. In this and all, I will fulfill the holy task as though he were my own.

  Fondly,

  Flavio

  Lance raised his eyebrows at the man’s swagger. That guy had courted Carina and seemed to think of Quillan as an afterthought. Interesting they had chosen him for such an important role in Vittorio’s life. Quillan must have been confident of his relationship with his wife. He carefully folded the letter and slid it into the envelope.

  The next was on thin vellum with no ornamentation at all. It had the same smell of age, but felt brittle rather than stiff. With careful fingers, Lance unfolded it.

  October 12, 1925

  Darling Antonia,

  How pleased I am to celebrate your fifteenth birthday. Today the house will be filled with good cheer and well wishers, but there will be none who look upon you with more joy, not even the young rascals whose heads you have turned, than your own papa. You are still my ragazza picola.

  With love and tenderness,

  Papa

  His grandmother’s fifteenth birthday. And the Vittorio born to Quillan and Carina was her father. Ragazza picola: her papa’s little girl. He’d obviously doted on her. Why had she hardly mentioned him?

  Something stirred inside, deeper than family pride. This was his past, his ancestry, and he knew so little about the lives that went before him, the lives that made him. He closed his eyes and imagined his grandmother Antonia as a fifteen-year-old beauty. But there came instead to his mind a brownhaired, brown-eyed woman.

  Lance opened his eyes with a jolt. He did not want to picture Rese just now. Not while he was keeping this secret. How would she react if he showed her the box and its contents? If he told her who these people were, who he was….

  The next letter was definitely in a woman’s hand. He stared a moment at the form and shape of the words, not even caring what sentences they formed, just appreciating the beauty of the strokes. Then he began to read.

  Dear Mr. Michelli. Lance jerked, an almost electrical thrill passing through him.

  My nonno is the least of your concerns. He is very forward thinking and accepting. It is my papa you will have to convince, and since he is no less discerning than I, your chances remain bleak.

  Most sincerely,

  Antonia DiGratia Shepard

  His grandmother had a sense of humor—and a healthy self-image. He turned the paper over.

  Bella Antonia,

  I am up to the task, I assure you. I will call tonight at eight.

  Your ardent admirer,

  Marco Michelli

  Nonno Marco. He’d used her own letter to reply. Self-assured. Passionate. Lance had always felt an affinity. He smiled. His grandfather had come to America with nothing but “my mandolin across my back and my good looks”—in his own words. Apparently, he didn’t even have money for paper or postage. But in spite of Nonna’s dismissive tone, he had made enough of an impression for her to keep this scrap of correspondence.

  Lance closed the letter and put it with the others. The only things left in the box were two photos. A sepia picture of a blond woman with Helena penciled on the back and another of an older man with a shock of white hair, sitting at a desk with a pen in hand. Lance’s throat tightened. It had to be Quillan Shepard, though there was no name inscribed.

  He took out the packet from Conchessa that he had also stashed in his drawer. From it he drew the small book of poetry with pages worn as soft and pliable as cloth. He opened the book and gently turned the first leaves to an etched illustration of his great-great-grandfather. The hair was the same length and thickness, and the expression equally compelling. Lance studied the photographs again, then carefully put everything into the box.

  The contents had proved his family’s connection to the house and matched the things Conchessa had told him. Though there was nothing in the box that answered his questions or solved the problem he’d come to solve, it was a start. Anticipation rose up. The Lord had brought him there for a reason. Show me. Let me do your will.

  Lance put the papers back into the b
ox and slid it once again into the drawer. He flipped open his cell phone, pressed the number for Nonna’s room and waited. She wouldn’t answer herself, but there was usually someone with her. If she was up to it, they’d hold the phone for her and he could tell her what he’d found.

  But the phone rang with no answer. Maybe she was in therapy, raising and lowering her arms in the pool, whatever little steps she was taking back to health. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what he should tell her.

  The last time he had spoken with her directly, she had tried to talk, and the effort had frustrated and weakened her. It was better in that respect to talk to the others, but this information was for Nonna alone. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, just a sense they’d had between them from the start, his knowing what she needed without her asking, and vice versa.

  He would wait until he had something more, something solid to tell her. He only hoped whatever it was would bring her peace.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The crushing of the grapes.

  Juice and remains divided;

  one to its lauded use, the other humble.

  Stems and skin returned to the land, renewing its vigor.

  But the juice, ah, the juice. Cana’s treasure.

  Always we strive for the miracle.

  Rese was vaguely aware of Lance going out the kitchen door, probably to work on the carriage house, but she was preoccupied. Carpentry had become a bittersweet love, the sounds and smells rife with memories that came no matter how hard she tried to block them.

  The first months of renovation had been a welcome blur of activity, but every day now the numbness wore off. The pangs grew sharper, the images more debilitating. Wasn’t time supposed to lessen pain?